


old bridges breaking

by visiblemarket



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (so 15/25), Alternate Universe - Once Upon a Time Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Underage Relationship(s), M/M, Suicide Attempt, based on the canonical age difference of ten years, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 43
Words: 14,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The town of Montreuil-sur-Mer is almost aggressively quaint. (Wait, no. There’s a hotel with a thatched roof and tudor panels in the main square: there’s no <span class="u">almost</span> about it).</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>It would probably seems magical to anyone else; Fantine just wonders what it’s hiding.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt: _Crossover with “Once upon a time”, they all are characters from stories/fairytale or even some myths with a curse that keep them apart from their “happily ever after”. How do they break it and live happy in their world again._
> 
> With some deviations, because...yeah.
> 
> (The underaged implications are predominantly in Chapter 3, 5, and 7; the child abuse is in Chapter 12 and 13)

The castle was falling. 

The stone walls cracked before the howling wind, the vaulted ceilings crumbled. The night sky above them looked as shredded tapestry might, stars rent from their places in the soft velvet. Beyond it, there was only swirling blackness. Below it, a man was dying. 

Blood, rich and thick and warm, poured from the wound in his chest, soaked his white shirt, painted the ice-cold floor beneath him, yet he felt no pain. He felt nothing at all. He shut his eyes. He heard no more. 

_I'm sorry_ , whispered the swirling wind around collapsing columns. _I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry. I love you._

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

Paris in the springtime is a joke she’s never quite gotten. 

It's loud, it smells, it teems with the rosy-faced and rude, the lovers seeking a miracle from architecture and selective history and over-priced food, flowers, and wine. Which would be fine, of course, or at least only distantly annoying, except their romantic delusions make them vulnerable as hell, all of them, to all manners of crime, from the petty to the vicious. At which point, of course, it becomes her problem. 

She is not a fan, to say the least. 

Of her apartment, though? Of storing her sidearm, of peeling off her uniform, of scrubbing off the remnants the Seine from her afternoon plunge to rescue some overly-dramatic, romantic fool? She's a big fan of that. 

(The French are glad to die for love, they say; she wishes they would stop acting like that was a good thing.)

The night is young and she's finally clean and there are few fresh madeleines from the sweet girl in the BPM who's been trying to ask her out for weeks but has yet to get up the courage to do so directly; she hopes Élise never does, because it'd be a shame to turn her down. She's an excellent baker.

Yes, it's going to be a good night. 

Sure, she's alone, and her refrigerator is empty except for some ancient milk, and her apartment smells vaguely of the kebab shop down the street, but in many ways, it's one of the best birthdays she's ever had. Top five, definitely. 

(And perhaps that is a little sad; but she will take vague melancholy to outright misery). 

She pours herself a glass of red wine, kicks her ankles onto the dinged coffee table which is her pride and joy, the first thing she bought with her first government paycheck, and she bites into the first of three madeleines. She is not overcome by memories of loves from long ago, but it's pleasant, lemony and cloud-soft. She shuts her eyes, and then the doorbell rings. Because, of course.

She peers through the peep-hole: there's a girl at her door, a girl too young to be in this side of town this time of night by herself. Some sort of scam, probably, but Élise and her baking will never forgive her if she lets this blond, earnest-looking moppet of a child wander the streets alone. She opens the door.

"Fantine?" the child (seven years? ten? children are not her department) says. "Fantine Villenueve?"

Fantine narrows her eyes. "Who's asking?" 

"I think I'm…" the girl says, ducking her head for a moment. "I think I'm your daughter?"

_Well_ , Fantine thinks, as she clutches at the doorknob. _Seven, then._

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

The forest, it had long been said, was cursed: the local villagers avoided it, and it was only the foolish, the love-sick, and the desperate, who dared venture in. 

It was said that the forest was sown with spells of truth, that any who set foot beneath its eternal trees could speak naught but the truth while under their shadow. Young couples felt this could only lead to good things in their relationships, but the bleached-white skeletons that littered the forest floor said otherwise.

Most days, the place was dead silent and eerily peaceful. The animals, unaffected by the truth curse, or most other curses really, had grown stupid from the lack of predation: no wolves walked those grounds but deer dashed between the trees and drank from sparkling streams, and rabbits hopped lazily among the mushrooms and nettles. 

Against a man with a bow and arrow and excellent aim, they had no defense. 

Such a man, who feared little from a truth curse and even less from the silence of the forest, might take the opportunity to bathe in one of the crystal-bright stream, and so one did. The water came to his waist and was blessedly cool against his warm skin. It burbled happily over the rocks downstream, almost loudly enough that he did not hear the snap of a branch and the sharp intake of breath that followed. 

He turned slowly: he was a young man, all of twenty-five, and beautiful, never more so than like this, tanned skin wet and glowing beneath the mid-day sun. His eyes were kind, but his smile was wicked. 

"I know you're there," he said, because it was true. No words followed. "I will not ask where. I will not ask why."

"But you still hope I will say." The voice came from a thick copse of trees to his right, but it was out from around a thick oak that a figure stepped. He was young, very young, still a boy, really: his hair was dark and mussed, his face dirty. His clothes were neat but thread-bare, and his boots were knee-length and a muted brown. His eyes were very blue. 

"Yes," he said, though he didn't have to, and the boy smiled, a sharp, knowing smile. "You're from the village?"

"No," the boy said, serious, as he walked to the riverbank. He ran his hand along the trees he passed, and the rough sound of his palm against the bark covered his nearly silent tread. 

"The plains?"

He laughed, a sharp, mocking sound far beyond his years. "No," he said, kneeling in the soft sand of the riverbank.

"Where, then?"

The boy's mouth twitched, and he ducked his head as he cupped the sparkling water in his hands. "Nowhere," he said, and splashed water over his face, ran his wet hand across the back of his neck. He looked up. "And you?"

"The castle."

The boy smirked. "Are you a prince?"

He laughed. "No."

"Then you're a poacher," the boy said, nodding at the buck he'd downed that morning and rising from the riverbank. "That belongs to the king. You've broken the law."

"Is that why you were following me? Because I…broke the law?"

The boy's eyes narrowed, and he frowned, took a step back, and winced.

"No," he said, through gritted teeth.

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

Cosette, for that is her name, apparently, is very quiet. 

She's very well-dressed, in a sweet little blue coat and nice jeans; someone had braided her soft blond hair that morning, carefully, and tucked back errant strands of it with butterfly barrettes. Fantine is relieved at this, somehow, though she knows objectively that it means nothing. Happy little girls don't travel over 200 kilometers to meet their lost birth mothers, after all. 

(Or maybe they do: it's hard for her to say what happy little girls do, given that she never was one, and hasn't exactly met many since.)

Anyway. Cosette is quiet. Polite, even after Fantine broke it to her that she would not be staying the night in Paris. The only time she has seemed less than quietly happy to meet her was when she realized Fantine was with the DCPJ: she'd frowned, and shook her head, and pouted for a solid five minutes.

She's back to smiling now, a bright, cheerful smile, and every time Fantine glances over at her, she seems to be glowing with the insatiable urge to tell a secret. 

It's unnerving. 

"Are you in school?"

Cosette gives her a slightly exasperated look. "I'm seven."

So, yes then. Right, of course.

"Are you…do you like it?"

"Yes."

Fantine nods; that's good, that's very good. Happy little girls like school. Probably. 

"And is your family—"

"Fine."

Fantine takes a breath, and glances over at her: she has removed what looks (and smells like: eau de mildew and mothballs fills the car) an old book. 

"Your mom must be very worried about you."

"You're my mom."

Fantine resist the urge to bang her head on the steering wheel, if for no other reason than the car would probably not survive it. "I'm your birth mother. But that doesn't mean—"

"I know. I get it. But I don't have another mom, so…"

"Oh," Fantine says. 

"I've got a dad. He's nice."

Oh, thank god. Fantine nods to herself, then realizes that in a way, that's even more worrying. "Is he—"

"He's _nice_ ," Cosette says, and there's a slight hint of defensiveness, like maybe she knows what Fantine was thinking and found it particularly offensive. Which, _fine then_. 

Fantine goes back to driving; Cosette goes back to reading.

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

The night was cool, but he pulled his bedroll from the wagon and set it on the soft earth anyway.

He could still smell the sap from the trees on his hands, could still feel the crisp bite of cold water against his lips. 

The stars were bright above him; he smiled to see them.

In the distance, his mother called for him; he rolled over and closed his eyes, sure she would not leave the gauzy confines of her caravan unless it was an emergency, and even then, she would not wander into the dark looking for him.

He rose with the sun, to the quiet stamp of horses; Jasper and Willow were pleased to see him, snuffled their greetings as he snuck past them, but not without tossing them an apple apiece. Jasper caught his in the air, but Willow thought herself beyond such childish tricks, and daintily retrieved hers from the ground.

He laughed to himself and ran on, back to the forest. The wind swept through the branches as he arrived, making them wave as if in greeting. He resisted the urge to wave back, but could not keep the smile from his face at the sounds of life around him, the chatter of birds and the titters of field mice.

A bush rustled, and spit out a man.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I gave you my word,” he said.

“That means nothing to me.”

He smirked. “My word is as good as law.”

“That means even less.”

“Yes,” he said, leaning back against an ancient oak. “I know.”

The man grinned, and followed him. He was close enough to touch, but he didn’t. “How old are you?”

“Old enough,” he said, tilting his head up.

“Only a boy would say so."

“Oh?” He pressed his shoulders into the tree and canted his hips forward. “Then tell me. What would a man say?”

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

The town of Montreuil-sur-Mer is almost aggressively quaint.

Wait, no. There’s a hotel with a thatched roof and tudor panels in the main square: there’s no _almost_ about it.

At nine o’clock at night, there’s nothing in the streets but twenty-year-old cars and fog. It would probably seems magical to anyone else; Fantine just wonders what it’s hiding.

“Okay,” she says, putting the car in park. “Where am I headed?”

Cosette is pouting again. “I don’t know.”

“Look, Cosette, we can do this the hard way or the easy way, but—“

There’s a knock at her window; she rolls it down, and is met with a nervous smile from a nervous looking young man with a cane.

“Sorry, miss, but you’re in front of the—My goodness, Cosette!”

“Hi, Dr. Sauveterre,” she mumbles, and gives a little wave.

“You know this girl?”

The young man nods. Vigorously. “The Mayor’s been going crazy looking for her!”

Fantine turns to look at her. “The _Mayor_?”

Cosette pouts again. “He’s nice.”

“Oh, Mr. Fauchelevent is very nice!” Fantine glances over at the doctor again. “Very nice indeed! And also _very worried_.”

Fantine sighs. Great, either she’ll get a commendation out of this, or else have to explain to her captain why the local government of some sleepy resort town is cutting all ties to the National Police.

“Can you tell me where I could find…” she sighs. “The Mayor?”

“Oh, easy! Straight down this street, turn right in five blocks, then left. It’s a big brick house, can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, Dr…?”

“Sauveterre,” he says, and touches his nose with the tip of his cane. “Felix Sauveterre. Pleasure to meet you, miss.”

“Yeah. Same, sure.”

She drives off: the houses are neat and the streets are very clean, and old-fashioned wrought-iron lamps glow in the fog. It makes her skin crawl a little.

The big brick house is pretty nice, at least. Obviously very old, with vines crawling up the walls, but there’s a nice little garden out front, candles burning in the windows, and the gates are open.

“C’mon, kid,” she says, and Cosette sighs, but opens her door and steps out. Fantine steps out to follow her and almost immediately, two bright lights mounted on the thick stone gate flare on. Her hand goes immediately to her hip, and end up clutching at nothing as a man strides out across the front yard and rushes up to Cosette as if about to embrace her.

And then stops, short, and runs a hand through his short-cropped hair. “I was—your father is very worried.”

“Sorry,” Cosette says, her voice quivering a little. “I didn’t think—sorry.”

“Just go in. He’ll be happy to see you.” His tone is clipped, his body language stiff and uncomfortable, but there is an undisguised and undisguisable terror in his eyes. Fantine takes a step closer: he’s a few inches taller than she is, several years older. Handsome enough, if you like that sort of thing. His eyes are very blue, and very sharp, as they fix on her. “Go on in, Cosette.”

She does, without question or pout or anything. It’s impressive.

“Neat trick,” Fantine says, and the man fixes her with an equally impressive glare.

“Who are you?”

“Well, um,” she says, not sure whether to say. “I guess you could say I’m her—Cosette’s, that is—birth…mother?”

His eyebrows go up. His mouth opens, then shuts. She sees him clench his fists and she feels the urge to return the gesture, but in the end all he does is shake his head.

“Stay here,” he says, and she doesn’t have a chance to refuse before he’s turned on his heel and walked back into the house.

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

The trees were in bloom.

It didn’t matter that they were eternal trees, ever-green but never blossoming: today, they had burst forth pink and red flowers that littered the forest floor and smelled of spring.

Jean kissed him and birds sang. Blossoms fluttered in the breeze, pink as his cheeks, red as his lips.

Jean looked at him and wondered, tasted him, stroked his skin. Branches rustled above them, and grass seemed to grow beneath their feet. Small blue flowers trailed him when he walked.

Jean was not a man comfortable with magic, but there was something undeniably intoxicating about being the cause of it, of the sudden flush of nature as the forest came to life with the flutter of dark eyelashes. That he should see this, that he should be trusted with it, was more powerful a spell than any sorcerer could cast.

And he was a fool to think so: he was so young, so dangerously unaware of his power, painfully innocent in some ways and in others so sharp he seemed liable to cut himself. He was a danger to himself and to others, or so would say the Guard; magic was to be controlled and tempered, or so would say the King. 

And Javert, with his meticulous laced tunic, his carefully cleaned boots, and bright eyes, was so far from being able to control the bursts of emotion that sent anything he touched, from ancient oaks to delicate saplings, shooting up several inches.

~*~


	8. Chapter 8

Mr. Fauchelevent _is_ very nice: he’s offered her a drink, dinner, a chance to go upstairs to tuck Cosette in, a night tour of the town. A guestroom, to sleep in, a chance to talk in the morning, and breakfast, of course

Felipe Gagnon of the National Gendarmerie, on the other hand? Kind of a dick.

He’s glared through the entire conversation, from a dark corner, with his arms crossed over his chest. He only stopped when the chance arose to walk her to her car, and even then, he’s entirely silent until they reach it.

“How old are you?” he barks, and Fantine gives him a steady look.

“Twenty-five. Today. How old are _you_?”

“So you were eighteen when she was born. Practically a child yourself.”

“Look, I don’t know what you think I’m here for, but—“

“She isn’t yours.”

Which is true, of course it’s true. She’s never thought otherwise. But it needles her, somehow, and she snaps: “ _Excuse_ me?”

“She isn’t yours. He’s raised her, cared for her, loved her. All _you_ did is abandon her.” His eyes narrow. “Paul won’t say it, so I will: stay away from them.”

“Hey, she came to _me_ , I didn’t—“

He straight-out _looms_ over her, expression intense and not a little murderous. “And you came here. And you will come back in the morning, make nice with the Mayor and _his daughter_ , and then you will _leave_ , never to return. Do you understand?”

“I _understand_ ,” she says, squaring her shoulders and looming right back: he may be taller than her but it’s not by much, and she has, in her time, faced down an actual sadistic murderer or two. A small-town inspector is _cake_ by comparison. “But I _choose_ who I obey. And I do not obey you.”

He takes a step back. His face becomes no less intimidating from the distance. “You may want to reconsider that,” he says, and turns around, not bothering to say anything else as he strides away and back to the house.

"What're you going to do about it?" she calls out, because she's a idiot. "Arrest me?"

~*~


	9. Chapter 9

The sun was shining when he left the forest, but night fell before he returned to the camp.

He smelled it, _heard_ it, before he saw it: smoke, the crackle of burning wood, the screams. He ran to the clearing and stopped short: wagons had been overturned, broken apart; drapes and carpets had been shredded and strewn across the earth; small fires raged across the clearing. The wind began to howl behind him but stopped, as he saw Sébastien, the horsemaster, stroking desperately at Willow’s neck; Jasper lay beside her, utterly still, his white coat soaked red.

Javert jogged up to them. “Wait,” he said, and pushed Sébastien’s hand away. The horse’s pulse was waning but he pushed at it, dragged her back. The wide gash across her belly knit itself back together, and she nearly knocked him over as she scrambled to her feet again. 

Sébastien helped steady him, and gazed hopefully at Jasper; Javert reached out but knew better. Sure enough, his heart was already cold. Javert shook his head, and Sébastien’s old, worn face crumpled like a child’s.

“ _Who_?” was all Javert could think to say, and Sébastien’s gulping gasps didn’t provide much of an answer.

“The King’s Guard.” It was Mathilde, his solid, frowning wife. There was a bright welt across her cheek, like she’d been whipped. “Who’d you expect? Goblins?“

“But how—“

“Couldn’t tell ya,” she said. “Came up the road ‘round sunset.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Gone. Straight to the woods for cover. Me an’ Sébastien stuck ‘round for the beasts, but—“

Another loud sob from Sébastien, something unintelligible, and Mathilde frowned, more so than usual. “Not that I think you’ll care, but they took your mum with ‘em.”

“The Guard?”

Both Sébastien and Mathilde nodded. Javert sat back. The blood on his hands was sticky, and he could smell the creeping scent of death all around him.

The wind began to howl again.

~*~


	10. Chapter 10

“She seems nice,” he says, snuffing out the first candle in the window.

Felipe grunts.

He smiles to himself, and snuffs out the second candle. “I can certainly see where Cosette gets her looks.”

That earns him a withering glare, and Paul can’t help but laugh: the protectiveness is endearing, tender, even, but it’s late and he’s just so _relieved _, so happy she’s safe, that he doesn’t care how it came about.__

__“Come, now,” he says, easing him around with a hand on his hip. “Come to bed. You can scare her to death in the morning.”_ _

__He scowls, even as he leans in, cants his hips closer. “I fail to see why you find this so amusing. A strange woman kidnaps your daughter—“_ _

__“She did not _kidnap_ my daughter. Cosette went to—“_ _

__“So _she_ says. The strange woman.”_ _

__“Cosette’s mother.”_ _

__“No. Cosette _has_ no mother. Cosette has you, and you—“_ _

__“I’m her _father_ , but—”_ _

__“You are all she has. You are all she’s ever had. You can’t trust a woman who leaves her child. You _can’t_ just _believe_ everything she tells you. I swear, Paul, you would trust the _devil_ if he just _dropped in_ and _asked_ you to.”_ _

__Paul laughs: he’s so worked up, flushed with indignation, at him and for him, that he’s just begging to be kissed. And so Paul does, taking Felipe’s face in his hands, slipping his tongue into Felipe’s mouth._ _

__Felipe responds instantly, twining his arms around Paul’s waist and sucking on his tongue. He pulls back after a moment: “I’m serious about this.”_ _

__“You’re serious about everything,” Paul says, and pushes him onto the bed._ _

____

~*~


	11. Chapter 11

The Captain of the Guard thought of himself as a good man.

Measured. Reasonable. Not unnecessarily cruel. Patient enough.

And so, he listened to the boy before him, though he reeked of blood and smoke and death. His eyes were ice-blue and discomforting, but his tone, his manner, was solicitous and dripping with respect. The Captain was unnerved, but he spoke as kindly as he could:

“Your mother is a soothsayer, son. Any and all prophetic arts are strictly forbidden by law.”

“My mother is a fraud. She has no arts, prophetic or otherwise.”

“Customers swear by her.”

“She’s a good fraud, I grant you. Her lies are well-woven, perhaps there is an art in that. But there is no magic in her.”

“She has confessed.”

“She drinks. She drinks too much, she’ll confess to anything. She’s told me she’s the Witch of the Wood, the Great Empress, the Summer Goddess herself. Surely such flights of fancy are no crime.”

“Surely not, though I sometimes wish they were,” he chuckled, jovially, and the boy gave a weak smile in response. “I cannot release her, son. She has confessed; she must be tested. If she has no drop of magic in her blood—“

“She does not.”

“—then you have nothing to worry about.”

The boy wrung his hands. “If I…” he mumbled something, and the Captain leaned closer.

“What was that?”

“If I had information. About a… about a poacher. A thief. A killer of the king’s game. Running rampant through the cursed forest. Would that be worth more to you than a…a false soothsayer?”

The Captain sat back in his chair. It creaked, and the boy flinched.

“No magic at all, you say.”

“None, sir.”

“And so you would have none yourself, of course.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Of course.”

“Hmm,” the Captain said. “Tell me about your poacher, son.”

~*~


	12. Chapter 12

“You stupid, _selfish_ little bitch!”

Fantine darts out of her bedroom: the scene in the hallway is a painfully familiar one, the ruddy, dark-haired inn-keeper slapping a teenaged girl across the face.

“Hey! _Hey_!” she shouts, and strides over.

The inn-keeper drops her hand. “Sorry about that, dear,” she says, bright and cloying. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You—“ She swallows her immediate response. “I need a moment. With her.”

The woman’s mouth twists into an ugly little smirk. “Oooh, take all the time you need, _dear_.” She waves a dismissive hand at the teenager. “Take _all_ the time _you_ need.”

She hustles the girl into her room; she’s a thin, tiny thing, probably no older than eighteen, with dark, glowing eyes.

“What’s your name?” she says, and the girl shrugs.

“Adolphe.”

“Are you okay? That looked—“

“Oh, I’m fine, miss. My mum’s all right, mostly. Just a little frustrated with me today, you know how it is.”

“I really don’t,” she says, though it’s a lie. Adolphe smiles as if she knows it. “I’m with the police, I could get you help, if you—“

“Don’t need help, miss. Can take care of myself.”

Fantine sits down on her bed, and invites Adophe to join her. “Sure. Okay. How old are you?”

“Seventeen, miss.”

Fantine nods. “I was sixteen. When I ran away from home. The last time, at least.”

Adolphe’s eyes go wide. “Where’d you go?”

“Paris,” she says, with a smile.

“I’ve never been.”

“It’s all right.” It had been; it still is, much better than where she came from, at least. “You could give it a try.”

She laughs. “No,” she says, rising from the bed. “I don’t think I could.”

~*~


	13. Chapter 13

Javert?” His mother’s face was pale as the moon, and she frowned to see him.

“Yes,” he said, as he lifted her from the filthy straw that littered the prison floor. “Yes, mother?”

“Why are you— _what_ did you…?”

“Don’t concern yourself,” he said, and the candlelight flickered around them, as if a door had just been opened.

“No,” she moaned. “No, you _idiot_. You selfish, foolish child!”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and nodded at the guardsman who opened the door for them.

“No,” she snapped. “Put me _down_!”

He did; she wavered for a moment, then pulled herself up, looked him straight in the eye, and slapped him hard across the face.

It burned; he brought his hand up to his face and could feel the heat of it, still. “What—“

“You _are_ a fool.”

“I’m what you made me,” he said, and she slapped him again.

“No,” she said, pointing her finger at him. Her blue eyes were full of simmering rage and he took a step back. “You are what you’ve made yourself. You always have been. You will not pretend to love me _now_ , now that you have made your _choice_.”

“I’m your _son_ ,” he said, weak, and she laughed, sharp and jagged, throwing her head back and shaking with it.

And then she stopped.

“I have no son,” she said, and a strange calm smoothed her features. “You are free of me, of any _duty_ to me. Do what you will. As you have always done, anyway.”

“Mother—“

But she shook her head; the space around her blurred, the air hummed, and then she was gone.

~*~


	14. Chapter 14

It’s a nice morning.

The town alive and bustling with early-morning activity: Mr. Fabian’s opening his store, and Father Lévesque waves at him from the steps of the church. Dr. Sauveterre walks past with the Bonheur boy in tow, and Caron’s delivery van rumbles by.

Felipe enjoys it, in his way. He’s not looking forward to breakfast, but the air is fresh, and the flowers have begun to bloom.

The bakery’s bell tinkles as he enters, and Paul waves him over to the four-person table. The only seat left is besides Fantine, because Paul is not-so-secretly a bastard.

Cosette grins up at him as he passes behind her chair, and he smiles back; Paul winks at him, which he does not return, as he sits down in front of him. Fantine’s smile is bright and brittle and false. She sips coffee awkwardly, and Felipe rolls his eyes.

“This is cheerful!” Paul says, and Felipe gives an incredulous laugh. He’s startled and not a little annoyed to realize Fantine has done the same; she doesn’t look thrilled about it either, and turns her head away when their eyes meet.

“Yes, dear,” he says, aiming for droll, but he realizes (by the slight widening of Fantine’s eyes, if nothing else) that there’s a current of possessiveness behind it that he’d been trying to avoid. He looks back at her, steadily, daring her to object; she merely shrugs, and for some reason this angers him all the more.

Breakfast is served; Cosette and Paul chatter throughout, telling Fantine about _everything_ , her schooling, her stuffed animals, her trips to the stables, and ( _sweet Christ_ ), what time she gets out of school and the days Paul cannot retrieve her and she walks home by herself. _Well, not anymore_ , Felipe thinks to himself, as he viciously spears a potato wedge.

Fantine listens to it all with wide eyes and an overwhelmed manner. She keeps twisting her napkin in her hands, and the minute Cosette’s meal is finished, she stands up.

“Well,” she says. “This has been lovely. But I’ve got to get on the road, you know. Back to Paris.”

“Oh, no,” Paul says. “Are you returning to work?”

“No, I took the day,” she says, which is a mistake.

Paul beams. “Then you must wait! At least let Felipe take you ‘round the town. See the sights! Cosette and I are needed at the Church, but if you wait, we’ll have lunch at the house this afternoon.”

“Is…Mr. Gagnon not needed at church?”

“Felipe doesn’t go to church,” Cosette chimes, and Felipe gives her a look. She shrugs.

“Yes, it’s true,” Paul says, tone pitying and sweet. “Such a shame, our dear heathen. Would _you_ like to come, Miss Villenueve?”

“No, I—“ she throws him a look he cannot understand; camaraderie? There is a small smile on her lips, at least. “I don’t go to church, either.”

“Ah!” Paul says, and reaches over to clap him on the back. “Ah, wonderful! You’ll have a lot to talk about, then!”

~*~


	15. Chapter 15

The woods in the east were mostly dead: bare limbs, cracking bark. Snow covered the forest floor, smooth and clean, uninterrupted by animal tracks or signs of anything living.

The river had not frozen, at least: his feet had felt the burn of icy water the first mile, but had since numbed to the pain, and he walked on, comforted by the silence behind him.

Ahead of him, the river parted, flowed around a green island. There was a house built upon it, tiny and well-tended. Candlelight flickered in the two windows, and as he approached it, the door was flung open.

“Aha! You are late, my lord!”

He stopped. He stared. The man who called to him was very old, with hair as white as snow, but his eyes were a twinkling black and his arms were wide open.

“I’m…sorry?”

“No need, no need! Come in, come in! Warm your feet by the fire! Have a drink!”

All that he did: the man guided him inside, dusted the snow from his shoulders, pushed him gently into a chair. A mug of spiced wine was shoved into his hand. The old man knelt before his feet to unlace his boots: at that, he protested, and was waved into silence.

“No, no, my lord! Allow me!”

“I am no one’s lord, sir.”

“No! No, of course!” he said, cheerfully patronizing. “Of course you’re not! Another glass of wine, my good man?”

“I—well, yes, I suppose—“

A newly filled mug was practically forced to his lips. He drank in silence, as the old man wrapped a thick blanket across his shoulders, and tutted off. He returned with another chair in tow, and set it beside him.

“Now, now,” he said, and patted him on the knee. “It _is_ good to see you! You were quite late, I must say.”

“I did…not know I was expected?””

“No, of course! No need to apologize! How was your journey?”

“Rough,” he said, which was true. He shuddered, and took another sip of wine.

“The life of a fugitive!” the old man chortled.

“I’m not—“

“My good sir! No lies in this house! No judgments except the ones we make on ourselves! Now, tell me: how fares your heart?”

“My…heart?”

“Your heart, my lord! Still broken?”

“ _That’s_ personal,” he said, and the old man’s face fell; his features read hurt, embarrassment, regret. He patted his knee again, and rose.

“I apologize, my friend. Sleep, rest, warm yourself, now. We will speak of it in the morning.”

~*~


	16. Chapter 16

“So you’re not a fan of the Church, then.”

Gagnon gives her a sour look, even as he nods.

“But Cosette is being raised in it?”

He sighs. “The Mayor is religious. He and Father Lévesque are old friends. It’s no business of mine. Or _yours_.”

“I’m making conversation,” she says, pointedly: the tour of the town has been entirely silent thus far.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, all right. The town hall is there, by the way.”

It’s a stocky, solid building; grey stone, grey bars in the windows. The only hint whimsy to the place are the apple trees planted on both sides of the front steps.

“I see,” she says, and he gives her a brisk nod.

“The school is this way,” and off he walks, his hands folded together behind his back.

The tour does not take long: she sees the school (predictably quaint, with beautifully painted murals of children and animals playing along the white-brick walls), the stables (larger than she’d expected for a town of this size), the police station (he stops in to scold a bored-looking deputy for keeping the front light on in the day time). There’s a grocery store, the inn she’s staying at, two restaurants; a tidy bookshop with bargain shelves outside, below a bright-green awning; a great number of people who seem very willing to cross the street to avoid them. Or at least, to avoid one of them.

He drops her back at the inn once they’ve made their round. He’s glowering less than before (perhaps he believes how entirely and totally she doesn’t want to stay in provincial hell), and she takes the opportunity to offer her hand. He takes it, after a moment of hesitation. They shake without a word.

She walks by Adolphe on the way in; she’s pretending to sweep the front hall, but once the door is shut, she drops the broom against the wall and runs up to Fantine.

“Out with the Inspector, I see.”

Fantine can’t help but laugh. “Under protest. What’s his deal?”

“Oh, he’s not so bad. He was in the war, my mum said. Messed him up a bit.”

“The war?” Adolphe nods, and Fantine frowns. “ _What_ war?”

“Oh, you know,” she says. “ _The_ war.”

“Yeah…” Fantine does not, in fact, know.

~*~


	17. Chapter 17

“What else?” The deputy squirmed under his gaze. “Out with it, son.”

“Reports of a woman takin’ up with two dwarves, sir.”

“Just two?” he said, holding back a smile. “Not the usual seven, then?”

“No, _sir_ ,” and gods, the deputy was just so _earnest_. “Just the two!”

“And what else?”

The deputy dropped his eyes: not a good sign, there.

“Something ‘bout a horse,” he mumbled, and the captain leaned forward. Blinked.

“A horse,” he said, dry as the western desert.

“A winged…sort of…situation…there?”

The captain sighed. Magical creatures were just what he needed, right at the end of his shift. “How reliable?”

“Well, y’know. The odd drunk lost in the forest, like.”

“So, very?” he rose from his desk. “All right, deputy. I will look into it. You are dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir!” The young man looked especially relieved at having passed the problem up the chain. Unprofessional, that. He’d have to have word with the boy, but he wasn’t about to chase him down for it now.

Night had fallen by the time he left the Guard House; the smell of cooking smoke wafted through the village, and the sound of men and women returning from the fields filled the air.

The moon was bright in the sky, and he gazed upon it for a moment, before squaring his shoulders and turning from the well-tended village road and into the rambling forest trails.

He made no sound as he walked; a mouse ran over his boot, and an owl flew over him, chasing its prey. He wished it luck on its hunt. He heard an odd howl, and walked on, unconcerned: there were wolves in this forest, or so it was said, but he had yet to seen one.

The possibility of wolves did not bother him, but the certainty of something large crashing through the foliage did: he leapt to the left as uneven hoof beats thundered past him, and then, without thinking, ran to follow them. He darted around trees, strode over gnarled tree roots, stepped over odd tangles of vines. He stopped, breathless, at a clearing.

The horse gleamed in the soft silver light of the moon. It was a large beast, with vast, strong wings covered with black feathers. It tossed its head, and stamped and shuddered and reared. An arrow had pierced its neck, and one of the wings drooped awkwardly against the broad barrel of its chest.

He was not surprised: the bounty on magical creatures was high, too high, because any fool with a bow could fancy himself a unicorn hunter, but any beast with magic in its veins was hard to kill, and perilous even in dying throes.

“Shh,” he said, unthinking, and the animal turned to look at him. “Shh, my lad,” for he was indeed a stallion, young and shivering. “Just let me…” he stepped closer, with his hands in the air, and the horse stamped and snorted, before he stilled and carefully watched his approach. “There, now,” he said, laying a hand on the beast’s neck. For all his speed and vigor, the animal’s pulse was thready and faltering. That could be fixed: he kept the beast still, flushed it with painlessness, as he sliced the arrow out. The slice of skin knit itself back together, though the scar would remain. The wing was more difficult: healing bones always was. They crunched back into place beneath his hands, and the sound was sickening.

The horse bore it, patiently enough, and even nuzzled the back of his neck as he finished. The wings fluttered experimentally, and he smiled, smoothing down the thick black mane. “There, now,” he said. “Better, yes?” The horse stamped at him, ruffled his hair with his fine muzzle. “Now about these…” he pressed his hand to where the great, fluttering things joined the horse’s shoulders. They rustled desperately for a moment, as if longing to force their way into the air, but then faded, like smoke dissipating in a strong breeze.

The horse looked at him, then at where his wing should be, then at him: accusingly, there was no doubt about it.

“They’re still there,” Javert said. “They just cannot be seen.” The horse huffed at him. Javert shook his head, tumbled over his words: “There’s no shame in it. In hiding it, the way you were made. To survive. There’s no shame in it.”

The horse did not look convinced.

~*~


	18. Chapter 18

“And what was she wearing this morning?” he says, doing up his tie. “It was _breakfast_ , not a leather bar.”

Paul snorts. “And what do _you_ know about leather bars, dear?”

Felipe blushes, and turns away from the mirror. “It was inappropriate.”

“It was a _jacket_. It was likely all she had on her,” he says. “She didn’t expect to spend the night.”

“Still,” he says, turning back to the mirror.

He laughs again and drops his chin onto Felipe’s shoulder, wraps his arms around him from behind.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, hot against the back of his neck, as Felipe finishes buttoning his shirtsleeves. “I forget which one of us is the bitter, old fart.”

Felipe smirks. “That’s because your memory’s going,” he says, and twists in his arms.

They kiss; it’s sweet and familiar, and Paul’s heart—stutters. Stumbling over the beats. Hammering against his ribs. He pulls back. “Stay, tonight.”

Felipe’s eyes drop. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” he asks, though he knows.

“Because,” which is the answer he always gets, and Felipe pushes out of his arms, slips his jacket back on, and opens the bedroom door. He looks back before he leaves: “Do you want me at lunch?”

_Always_ , he wants to say. _I want you always_.

“If you’re not busy,” he says, and Felipe nods, and turns back around.

~*~


	19. Chapter 19

It was morning, and the old man’s house had grown.

Or perhaps it was just that he was seeing more of it in this light, but there were certainly more rooms than he’d noticed the night before, and what he’d thought was a lush carpet was revealed to in fact be thick, soft grass. Vines were draped over the walls, like deep green tapestries darted with tiny white flowers that smelled slightly of honey.

“Hello?” he called out, and woman with hair the color of dandelions peered out from the kitchen; another woman, this one with flaming-red hair, appeared beside her, took one look at him, and retreated.

“Good morning,” said the blonde. “Did you sleep well?”

“I—well—yes?”

“Good,” she said, and disappeared again.

“Don’t mind them.” He whirled around to find the old man from the night before at his elbow. He smiled a broad, cheery smile that crinkled his eyes. “It’s not their time.”

“Their time?”

“Too cold,” he said, and waved him back to the chair he’d used the night before.

“And it’s not…too cold…for you?”

The man laughed. “The cold is an old friend!”

“All right,” he said, though it wasn’t. “And I am—“

“A friend to be!” A bowl of porridge is thrust into his hands; he had no idea where it had come from, for the old man hadn’t touched it. “Eat!”

And he did, without thinking. The man looked like he wanted to throw more food at him, and before he could manage it, Jean had to know: “Who _are_ you?”

“Just a simple man of the forest, my lord!”

Ah. Of course. Well, Jean had had more than enough men of the forest in his time. His chest ached, and not from the cold.

“Aha!” said the old man, pointing triumphantly at his chest. “And there it is!”

“There what is?”

“Your heart! Broken, and yet still it beats. What do you think of that?”

“I think I should leave.”

“Not yet, my friend,” said the old man. “Not quite yet!”

~*~


	20. Chapter 20

“So,” she says, and Cosette looks at her, and smiles that sweet, gentle smile, as she kicks her legs under the swing. “How was mass?”

“Okay. I like the singing.”

Well, that’s good. That’s normal. She thinks.

“Do you like it here? In town?”

“Oh, yes, I love it!” Cosette says, and her face brightens even more. Fantine frowns.

“Then why did you run away?”

“I wasn’t running away,” she says, matter of fact. “I was trying to find you. To bring you home.”

“This isn’t _home_ for me, Cosette.”

“It is. You just don’t remember.”

She chokes back a laugh. “I don’t—I don’t remember?”

“Did you see the book?”

Fantine stares at her. “The book?”

“I left it in your car. Look it over tonight.”

“I’m going back to Paris tonight.”

Cosette swings up, higher from the ground. “Okay.”

“Cosette, I can’t—“

“I’ve been asked to inform you it’s time for lunch.”

She turns her head: Gagnon is standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest.

“We’ll be right in,” she says, and Cosette stops swinging.

“Thanks, Felipe!”

Gagnon nods at her, and heads back into the house.

“You like him?”

Cosette shrugs.

“ _Why_?”

“He’s just sad,” she says, spinning in the swing; the chains holding it up twist around each other. “He thinks it’s his fault.”

“What does he think is his fault?”

Cosette stops spinning, lets the chains untangle and spin her back around. “Read the book.”

~*~


	21. Chapter 21

“The story the villagers will tell you is this: years ago, the forest was the rendezvous of a powerful witch and a beautiful prince.”

“I’ve heard the story,” Jean said.

“Not as I tell it. Shh,” he waved his hand. “A powerful witch and a beautiful prince: their love was fierce as flame, and as dangerous. It set the forest ablaze.” Jean tried not to roll his eyes. “But the prince was fickle. He was to be married, and could not bear to lose his position, his royal standing, his castle, for a simple witch in the woods.”

“And so he betrayed her, and she, in a rage, cast a curse upon the forest where they met, that no other would be betrayed as she was. I told you, I have heard the tale.”

“But you have not heard the truth.”

“Ironic,” he said, and the old man frowned at him.

“The curse was meant for him, not the forest. But her heart was still so full of love for him, even in her rage, her own powers could not touch him. Her love was stronger than her rage, and their child—“

“Their _child_?”

“Their child,” he said, eyes sharp. “Their child was born, there. His heart is of that forest: powerful, and true.”

“I doubt it.”

“Do as you will,” the old man said. “Do as you will, but imagine a child born to that, a burning forest. The hatred of his mother, and her love.”

~*~


	22. Chapter 22

The book is _old_ , occasionally illustrated, and really not appropriate for seven year olds. 

_Cœur de bois et autres histoires_ it’s called, but she gets the feeling that the other stories are not quite as relevant.

She had planned to leave the inn around seven o’clock; instead, she hikes back toward the Mayor’s house, book in tow, and then changes her mind and walks back toward the police house.

The bright blue light is on, and she walks straight in: Felipe sits at the front desk, though she imagines he has an immaculate office somewhere in the back.

“Miss Villenueve,” he says, flat. “What a pleasure.”

“I doubt it,” she says, and flings the book onto the desk. “What the hell is this?”

“Cosette’s book?” Felipe shrugs. “I don’t know. Paul gave it to her. She carries it everywhere. Wait, why do you—”

“She left it in my car,” she says, suddenly defensive.

“Well,” he says, suspicious again. “I will be sure to return it—“

“She can’t read this!”

“Why?” he frowns, glancing over it. “What’s in it?”

“A lot of—a lot of stuff. Curses! Sex! Evil…women…abandoning their children!”

“Oh.” He smirks. “Oh, of _course_ she can’t read about that, can she?”

“There’s sex in this thing!”

His brows furrowed. “Where?”

She flips through to a passage. He skims it, lips moving at the words, and then chuckles. “That’s not sex, that’s just—“

“It’s implied! You can’t let her read this, she’s seven!”

“ _I_ can’t not let her read anything. I’m not her father. Just as you, I will again point out, are _not_ her—“

“Yeah, yeah, I’m not her mom. But _read_ this thing. _Tell_ me if this is something you want your seven year old reading.”

“She’s not my seven year old.”

“Your _hypothetical seven year old._ ”

He sighs, world-weary. “If I say yes, will you leave?”

“Maybe.”

He frowns at her. “I’ll read it.”

She somehow doubts it, but she nods and turns to make her way back out. Then she glances back: he’s left it, half open, on the desk, but is clearly not reading it. He seems, if anything, strangely shaken, curving his body away from the book.

“She thinks it’s you,” Fantine says, and he blinks back to life. Focuses on her.

“Who?”

“In the book. She thinks it’s you.”

He looks even more troubled by that. “Me?”

“Yeah. The guy who kills everybody and tears a world down. She thinks it’s you.”

~*~


	23. Chapter 23

It was spring in the forest, if nowhere else.

The woman with the dandelion hair was all smiles; the redhead sulked; and the old man was often quiet and still by the fire. 

“My lord!” he would say, as Jean approached him.

“I’m no one’s lord, my friend,” Jean would respond, and he would laugh, wave his hand, and fall asleep.

“Don’t mind him,” said the flame-haired woman, one night. They were perhaps the first words she'd spoken to him. “He forgets.”

“Forgets?”

“What he can’t yet know. He forgets. Don’t let it worry you.”

“Oh,” Jean said, and worried anyway.

The next day, the river gushed with melted snow, and the old man barely stirred. “Sir,” Jean said, clasping his hand. “Sir, are you well?”

“Mmm, quite well, my lord!” his eyes blinked open, and he smiled. “Though sad at the farewell.”

“The farewell?”

“You are leaving us soon, I think.”

Jean had thought of no such thing, but now… “Am I?”

“Oh, you must!” he said, and his eyes sparkled once more. “Your journey is not yet done.”

“Oh,” Jean offered, for he had nothing else to say.

The old man laughed, and waved his arm. “Go! Fetch me that box!”

The box in question was dark burnished wood, three hands wide, four hands long, and not quite one hand deep. The old man took it: the lid was hinged, and when lifted, revealed two pure-white, nearly identical candles. The wick of one was red; the other was black.

“This one,” he said, guiding Jean’s hand to the red-wicked candle. “When lit, will guide you to your rightful place.”

“I have no rightful place.”

The old man smiled his most mysterious smile. “Of course not,” he said.

“And the other?” Jean said, running his fingers along the smooth wax.

“The other will not light at all, till you are safely home.”

Jean thought that was fairly useless, but he was not one to refuse a gift.

“And you may keep the box, as well, my lord, if you think it of more use.”

~*~


	24. Chapter 24

The town sleeps under its nightly blanket of fog, but Felipe does not.

The station house is silent as a tomb. The deputy comes to relieve him around three, and he waves him away, sends him back home: he’s useless, anyway, doesn’t even bother clearing his computer history when he leaves in the afternoon.

The sun rises. The deputy returns. Felipe retreats to his rarely used office, sits silently in his chair, and he reads

His phone rings; he sees that it’s Paul, and he turns it off.

~*~


	25. Chapter 25

There was no way to silently ride through a forest, and they did not even try: their aim was to be noticed, to be remembered, to intimidate.

The dark horse at the front of the column practically flew over the rough terrain, and his rider smiled to himself, for just a moment, before schooling his features in professionalism and riding on.

The castle loomed before them, but they stopped short of it, cantering into the walled city across the river. They were met with suspicion and unease, but this was to be expected: the old head of the city guard had been a kind, indulgent, useless buffoon, and the strict imposition of order was bound to set those with criminal impulses quaking.

The line clattered across wet cobblestones, straight to the city hall.

A simply-dressed man of early middle age left the building. He wore the chain of office, and so Javert dismounted, walked over to him without a moment of hesitation. He held out his hand, and froze.

The man stared back at him, with green eyes unchanged by almost thirty long years. Javert swallowed, dropped his hand, then glanced about at his men, who were already muttering with surprise. He cleared his throat and offered his hand again.

“The Mayor, I presume?”

Jean snapped out of his haze. “Indeed!” he said, and took his hand. Javert could feel his warmth even through his black leather gloves; etiquette dictated they should’ve been removed to greet a superior, but he’s viciously, suddenly grateful for his rare lapse of memory. “You must be my—the—new Captain of the Guard. And your men. Very good!” he said, nodding at the lot. He dropped Javert’s hand. “Well! Very—I should let your men settle. And then perhaps you could…join me. At home. To discuss—“

“The town?”

“The town!” he said, and nodded desperately.

~*~


	26. Chapter 26

The doorbell rings at two in the morning. Paul knows better than to expect good news, but he’s not entirely prepared for the _look_ on Felipe’s face, the way he’s leaning against the doorframe, as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His uniform jacket is unbuttoned; his shoes are covered in mud. He stares at Paul and then staggers forward, reaching for him, embracing him with the fervor of a man grasping at a life raft.

Paul steadies him; holds him, as he shivers, and strokes his back.

“What is it? Where were you? We were worried, we thought—I called Fantine, she came, to look for you, but—“

“Is she here?”

“Fantine?”

“Cosette,” he says; his eyes, usually so clear and focused, ice-cold, were darting and full of fear. “I need to see her, I need—“

He’s burning hot, feverish, and Paul has to shake his head. “No. No, not like this—“ Felipe tries to pull away from him but Paul holds him tight. “You’ll scare her, Felipe! You’ll—“ and it’s like his strings have been cut: Felipe falls to his knees, still shuddering, and gasps for air.

Paul kneels before him, reaches for him, tries to hold him, but Felipe wrenches away and folds over. “I can’t—we _can’t_. You don’t—“

“I don’t…?”

“I love you,” he spits out, as if he’s choking on it.

“I love you, too,” Paul says, bewildered. Felipe looks up at him again. Reaches forward, presses a hand to Paul’s chest.

“Do you?” he says, eyes burning with something cold and desperate.

“Yes.”

“You’ve never said.”

“I—I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

Felipe nods at this. Pulls his hand away. His shuddering has stopped. He picks himself off the ground, squares his shoulders, and speaks: “I can’t do this anymore.”

~*~


	27. Chapter 27

“I did not think it would be you.”

“You did not think it would be _me_? You had my name. Which is more than I can say for—“

“It’s not an uncommon name, Javert.” Javert fumed. Outside, the lanterns adorning the Guard House flickered as if with the breeze, and Jean held back a laugh. “It isn’t. Had I know—“

“You would have run?”

“I’ve no reason to run.”

Javert snorted. “Yes. Of course. You’ve been pardoned. The king’s favorite, naturally. How fortunate for _you_.” He turned and Jean reached for him, rested his hand on Javert’s elbow for a scant second before he was forced back, sent stumbling to the hard stone floor.

~*~


	28. Chapter 28

The fog has lifted.

The town is real, he knows it is; the stars are foreign and the lights are strange, and his memories clatter around each other, crashing and fusing and burning before his eyes.

_How could he—how did he—what can he—_

He chokes; he swears; he drifts through the empty streets.

He prays, to a god he should not know. A god he’s never cared about, and yet—he doesn't remember the others, and it seems the best shot.

He hears voices calling his name, but it’s not his, is it? He laughs to himself, and keeps walking.

Memories flicker through his mind; the words burn in his heart.

~*~


	29. Chapter 29

They walked the town walls together; Javert would have preferred not to, would have preferred to walk them with just about any one else he’d met in his life.

He’d begun a tally of individuals he’d rather walk the wall with than the Mayor (the giant spiders whose nest he’d once fallen into; a quinotaur, which wouldn’t have done much walking, anyway; his own mother) before the man deigns to speak with him.

“You’ve no right to be angry at _me_ ,” he said, as Javert inspected the mortar between the stones.

“I’m not angry at you.”

“Oh, aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

“You’re lying.”

“Yes, well,” Javert snapped his fingers at the nearest deputy. “That is my business. Gillenormand!”

“Sir?”

“Complete the perimeter with the Mayor, then report any anomalies to me.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Captain—“

“You are in good hands, Mr. Mayor. Take care.”

He darted down the stairs before Jean could make any move to stop him, and did not look back.

~*~


	30. Chapter 30

“So you have no idea where he went?”

Paul looks so shaken that she wants nothing more than to hug him, which is not the most familiar of urges for her.

“No. He was here, and then he was gone, and I just—“

“All right. It’s fine, we’ll find him.” She glances up the stairs; there’s a hint of blond hair as its owner ducks behind a bannister. “Cosette?”

A moment of silence, and then: “Uh-huh?”

Paul sighs, runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “I thought she was asleep.”

“It’s fine. Let me talk to her.”

Paul’s mouth opens, and it seems as if he’s going to refuse, but she darts up the stairs before he can.

Cosette is sitting against the bannister, her arms wrapped around her knees.

“What’s up, kiddo?” Fantine says, and Cosette just shakes her head.

“You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t’ve tried to find you. Everything was _fine_ , you just _ruined_ everything, why did you—“ 

“Hey,” she says, ignoring the feeling of having been punched in the gut. “We’re going to fix this, okay? Felipe will be fine—“

“ _You weren’t supposed to tell him._ ”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I told him. I really am, and you’re right, I shouldn’t have. But I have, and I need to ask you: do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

~*~


	31. Chapter 31

The bridge between the town and the castle was well-maintained and an architectural marvel. Javert had yet to cross it, but the view of it from his office was quite pleasant: smooth arches enforcing some semblance of order on the gaping ravine, with the river trickling far below a bright silver line.

He looked at it now, watched the steady procession of deliveries and the occasional diplomat.

“You do understand that was not a request.”

“I do,” he said, not bothering to turn around.

“So you will come?”

“I will not.”

“Captain—“

“If the Mayor wishes to speak to me, he is welcome here. He needs not invent dinner parties, or receptions, or strategy meetings, or—“

“The king will be in attendance.”

_Damn him_ , he thought, and turned around. He held out his hand. A carefully embossed invitation was pressed into it, and the footman fled.

He stared at the thing. Resisted the urge to throw it in the fire. Instead, he left it on his desk, slipped on his coat, and went for a walk.

The guards at the Town Hall seemed surprised to see him, but waved him in without so much as a word. 

He’d never been inside, not since the day they’d arrived, but the Mayor’s office was not hard to find. He barged in without knocking; Jean jumped up in alarm, and then smiled to see him. Javert had no patience for _that_.

“Your guards are shit.”

Jean’s smile fell. “They’re your men!”

They were and they weren’t: the best culled from a limited, shallow pool of those found agreeable enough and loyal to the crown. “Still. They’re entirely useless against what’s coming.”

“Well, _that’s_ a comfort,” he said, sitting back down, waving at the chairs in front of him. “So what _is_ coming, Captain? You’ve yet to explain _why_ it’s so very _essential_ that the—“

“Magic, my lord.”

“Magic?” Jean snorted, sat back in his chair. “I’ve seen magic. Blooming trees and spring breezes. Utterly terrifying.”

“You’ve seen a love-struck fool,” he snapped. “A _child_. You’ve no idea what could happen.”

“The rebels are just children, too.”

“The rebels are _angry_. They have lost their homes, their families. They want _revenge_ , and they care not what happens to those who stand in their way.”

Jean gave him a smug, knowing look. “You seem almost sympathetic.”

“I’m not." He wasn’t. He’d seen towns decimated by bursts of raw emotion, forests burnt to the ground. He would not see his kingdom brought down by senseless outbursts of pique.

“You were an angry young man too, once.” Jean’s tone was mild, and his eyes had that nostalgic haze that usually sent Javert storming from any room they shared.

For once, he stayed. Walked to the desk, sat in the chair in front of him, and stared. “I was never angry,” he said, clear as he could. “Never at the king. Never at the law. My curse—“

“Your _gift_.”

“You did not think it was a gift when I betrayed you.”

“That had nothing to do with—“

“Didn’t it?” He smirked, leaned back in his seat. “Dark magic corrodes the heart, or haven’t you heard?”

Jean frowned. Stood, abruptly, making the chair screech against the wooden floor. He walked around the desk, came to stand before him, and reached over to press a hand to his chest before Javert could think to move.

“Your heart beats.”

“I never said—“

“It beats. It lives. It loved, once. It may, again.” He cannot breath: Jean’s eyes were soft, his tone was warm, his smile was real, as he continued: “You’ve caused no wound that can’t be mended. You’ve chosen no path that can’t be left.” Jean leaned close, and he did not move away. The kiss was brief, but deep, deep in his chest, an ember flared. He gasped; Jean smiled. “You’ve grown up.”

He laughed, incredulous. “It’s been more than twenty years.”

“Twenty-seven,” Jean said, and kissed him again.

~*~


	32. Chapter 32

The streets are empty, too empty. 

He'd heard the sound of footsteps, just minutes before, but now there's nothing, just slick cobblestones and darkness. 

He reaches for the phone in his pocket; he's called before, so many times, left messages, had none returned. Couldn't even hear his voice, because Felipe'd never gotten around to changing the pre-recorded message with his own. And his voicemail must be full, by now, and yet…Paul calls again.

It rings; it rings and rings, and he thinks, for a second, that he hears the corresponding tone in the distance for a scant moment before it disappears. A second later, he realizes: it's stopped ringing on his end too.

" _Felipe_ ," he says, and there's a sound, quick and pained.

"Jean?"

"No...no, it's me! It's Paul—who—where _are_ you?"

There's a pause; silence, except for the sound of wind in the background, perhaps the rustle of trees. Then a soft, shaking inhale. 

"I don't…I don't know."

"What do you—" because it's impossible, Felipe knows the town better than anyone, walks the outskirts regularly, keeps records of downed trees and changed graffiti in abandoned houses and there is _nowhere_ he could've gone that quickly that would put him out of range of that knowledge. "What do you mean?"

"I don't _know_!" his voice is impatient, sharp, so, so familiar, that Paul almost sinks to his knees in relief. 

"It's fine, I'll find you, just...just tell me, what can you see?"

There's a biting, vicious laugh at that. "Everything," he says, and hangs up.

~*~


	33. Chapter 33

The night promised to be a long one: yet another ball, yet another evening of pretending not to be entirely out of place beside the king and his court, of ignoring the steady influx of guards in and around the city, to say nothing of the troubling news from the country which he was not, strictly speaking, supposed to know. 

At most, he’d hoped to avoid the king and yet another tale of his conquests among the peasants girls. Seeing Javert coming across the bridge, looking uncomfortable but almost shockingly handsome, was a gift by comparison. 

His dress uniform was blue, darker than his eyes, and well-fitted. The sword at his side was well-used but recently cleaned, and his hand drifted to it, occasionally, as he stood at uneasy attention below the portcullis.

“Hello,” he said, and Javert seemed momentarily startled, before he nodded.

“My lord.”

“You look…well.” 

“As do…as do you. Look. Well.” Javert seemed shocked to have had said so, but he squared his shoulders, frowned, and committed to it. "Very…healthy. Hale?"

"I see," he said, and Javert gave him a small, terrified smile, that fled immediately in the face of the new arrivals clattering in along the bridge. "I will…we will speak later?"

It came out more plaintive than he'd been intending, but that seemed to steady Javert, because he gave a brief nod, a curious look out of the corner of his eye, and half a smile, before he focused on the newly arrived carriage.

~*~


	34. Chapter 34

~*~

Fantine thinks splitting up was the worst decision they'd made tonight. She has no idea where she is, except, vaguely, that it's the east of city limits. Also, there's a lot of trees. Fantine is not unfamiliar with trees, but she's a city girl at heart, and finding her way, in the dark, through identical oaks (if that's what they are) is not her idea of a good time.

Also, in the distance, she hears wind chimes; she knows to her bones that that is probably not going to end well. She heads towards them, anyway: better something human and strange than more indistinguishable nature. 

She almost misses it, but another gust of wind sets the wind chimes jangling, and there it is, hidden behind some gigantic bushy tree: a trailer home, all faded aluminum and clouded windows. Great. She's probably found a serial killer. 

She considers walking on, or walking back: getting more lost, or returning to Paul's despair and Cosette's disillusionment. They are not wonderful options, but getting murdered in the woods is worse. 

She strides up to the trailer and raps briskly at the door. There's the sound of movement within, but it's slow and distracted. Eventually, the door opens: a woman appears, wrapped up in a red-plaid robe, smoking a long cigarette. Her hair is the color of sunflowers; it must be dyed, as she looks to be about sixty, if not more. Her eyes are very blue. 

"Yes, dear?" she says, around a cough, and Fantine startles. 

"I—" She doesn't know why, but the words do not seem to want to come. She stares some more: the woman is about her height, solidly built, and she wears red lipstick. At nine at night. In the middle of nowhere. Her training kicks in. "Hello, ma'am. Sorry to disturb you. I'm looking for this man?"

She holds out a photo (Felipe in his dress uniform, scowling at something; Paul keeps it in his wallet and thinks that's _subtle_ ). The woman doesn't even look at it. "Haven't seen him."

"Ma'am—"

"There's been no one by here but you, _dear_. I haven't seen anything."

"Please, just take a look." 

She sighs, but snaps her fingers, and Fantine hands it over. She looks at the photograph for a long while, strokes her red-painted fingernail around the edge. "The Inspector," she says, her red mouth curving into a smirk. 

"Yes, ma'am."

"What's he's done this time, then?"

"Just trying to find him."

She grunts at that, as if not convinced, then sighs. "Try the bridge."

"The bridge?"

She nods to her left; Fantine looks, and yes, perhaps, off in the distance, rising above the tops of the trees, are the peaks of what might be a bridge. 

"Old train bridge," says the woman. 

"Did you see—" The door slams shut, right in her face.

Well. It's the best lead she's had all night, at least.

~*~


	35. Chapter 35

He paced the Mayor's office, knowing that every moment he spent there and not marching his way to castle marked him as a traitor.

He paced, glancing fitfully at the immaculate desk, the neat lines of old books, bound in cracked red leather, on the shelves. He wondered if Jean had read most of them; he wouldn't put it past the man, to fill his head with foolish words, foolish thoughts, then leave the evidence in plain sight and easy reach.

_Damn him_ , Javert thought, and paced some more. 

Jean arrived half an hour after, flushed from the cold; his bright green eyes sparkled to see him. He beamed, shut the door, strode toward him like a man possessed, and swept Javert up into a warm embrace. Kissed him, before Javert could put a stop to it.

Javert pushed him away, too late, but better than not at all. Jean looked wounded, desperately unhappy with him, but he did not care. 

"What's—"

"What is _this_?" he said, throwing the red and black cockade onto his desk.

"It's not—" 

"It is. You are a fool, Jean Valjean. You are a fool and a traitor and I should—"

"Arrest me?"

"By rights I should kill you," he said, without thinking. Jean looked at him, disbelieving, and took a step back. Good, Javert thought, vicious in his thoughts as he could not be in his words. "But out of…" he struggled for the phrase. "Out of respect. I will not. I will give you…" he took a breath. "Explain this. Tell me I’m mistaken. Convince me, and I will not—"

"You are not mistaken," he said, flatly. "I am in contact with the rebels. I've supported them, given them information—"

"Which you got from me?" 

Jean looked at him; gaze steady, eyes clear. He reached out, and Javert flinched, pulled out of reached. Jean's hand dropped. "I've given them information. I don't regret it."

Javert cursed him, swore to himself, turned away in rage. Turned back. " _You will_ ," he said, and prepared to march out the door and to the castle. He got as far as the door before being grabbed by the wrist and spun around, forced against the wall.

"Will you not ask me why?" 

"No," Javert said, not bothering to struggle: Jean would release him or he wouldn't. His conscience would be clean either way. "Your motives are of no interest to me." 

Jean sighed; his hands were tight around Javer't's wrists, pinning him to the wall. It was a strange position, though admittedly not one beyond their experience. "It's because of you."

"How _dare_ you make this about—"

"You. Everything you've been through. Everything the king's done to you—"

"Employed me? Promoted me? Made me—"

"Cold, and guarded, and ashamed."

Javert laughed. "The only shame I feel," he said, tilting his head back to be able to glare up at him properly. "Is for having trusted you."

Jean released him, and turned away. Javert blinked, rubbed at his own wrists, which would likely bruise.

"Why are you here, Javert?"

"What?"

"To arrest me? You would've come with more men. To kill me? You could have done so by now."

"I wanted—"

"Wanted what?"

"For you to tell me it wasn't true."

"What will you do now?"

"Report you to my commander. Recuse myself from any dealings involving you."

"I'd prefer you didn't."

Javert laughed. "Yes, I imagine you would."

~*~


	36. Chapter 36

"I found him." Fantine's voice is very careful, very soft. She doesn't sound relieved; Paul's gut twists.

"Is he—"

"He's alive," which Paul hadn't even thought was in question, but now the possibility rises up through the murky fears in his mind, and threatens to stain all of them. "But…"

"Where?"

"Old train bridge." she's whispering, but so utterly, utterly clam. "West of town."

"I'll be right there."

"Be careful," she says, and hangs up.

~*~


	37. Chapter 37

They took the castle at dusk: the town was silent behind them, long-since abandoned. 

The stone bridge began to crumble as they crossed it, only to be knit back together, apparently by its own volition.

The wrought iron portcullis melted away in the face of their leader. 

Behind it, the King's Guard stood in a nervous, shifting line; they fired; the bolts from their crossbows arced to the ground before them, clattering to the cold stone floor. 

She drew her bow; the archers to the left and right of her prepared their shots as well. Right before the release, she was dragged back and to the ground. She didn't have time to throw Jean a murderous glare before a glaring red fireball roiled across their front line. 

"What was— _who_ was that?" she said, choking on the smoke and scent of singed hair. Ahead of them, the stone itself had melted, and bubbled a strange, molten red. She looked over; Jean was looking up, and, following his gaze, she caught a hint of a dark blue uniform in the rafters before it was gone. "Jean?"

Jean just shook his head. The Guard had dispersed in the smoke and commotion, probably fallen back to one of the defensive strongholds Jean had told them about. The chief was shouting out instructions, to freeze the stone, to charge the throne room, to—

She felt the steady presence to her left melting away, and out of the corner of her eye, could see Jean easing off, sneaking his way to a side door that, to their knowledge, led only to a set of servant's quarters. 

"What are you _doing_?" she hissed, as one of the other archers, a ragged-looking dark-haired man, gave them a dirty look. 

"It's locked," he whispered back, nodding at the door

"Are you surprised? They're being invaded." Jean gave her a look, and she sighed. Slung her bow over her arm, pressed her palm against the lock, and sighed. It was a simple thing, ancient metal in rotting wood. He could've kicked it open; she could have, and it would've been less work. She hummed to herself as the tumblers clicked into place. "Don't say I never did anything for you."

He grinned at her, and kissed her on the cheek. She blushed as she watched him ease the door open and take the narrow stone steps beyond it two at a time.

~*~


	38. Chapter 38

The man standing before the bridge is undoubtedly Felipe, but he is just as undoubtedly not: he stands strangely, hips cocked, hands behind his back. His shoulders seem to stiffen: he's heard her approach, and she'd made sure to let him, stepping incautiously unto the rough gravel.

"You seemed familiar to me," he calls out, without turning around: even his voice seems different, clearer, _younger_ somehow. 

"When?" 

"When we met," he turns his head for that. The moon above them is bright enough that she can see his face: it's calm, for all that his eyes dart around her, at her, and then away.

"Is that why you were so rude?"

He laughs. She doesn't think she's ever heard him do it before, but she hopes it doesn't always sound so painful. "Possibly."

He takes a step toward the bridge; his hand reaches out to touch the crumbling stone wall, then drops to his side. He takes another step.

"So you—you thought I seemed familiar?" 

"Yes," he says, stepping over old train tracks. He hoists himself up onto the wall; it's impressively smooth, as if practiced, and she realizes what that might mean. "I think you were there when I died." He straightens, and takes a step away from her.

Fantine tamps down the urge to rush over to him; it wouldn't end well for either of them. "You're not dead," she says, as she makes a steady, measured approach. She gets a glance down over the edge: it's a long way down, so long she can't even make out what's at the bottom.

"I remember dying," he says, hazily, then stops. He turns around, and his eyes soften. "Jean." 

She looks back: Paul is standing there, looking wrecked. 

"That's Paul," she says, firm, and Paul walks up to her. 

He swallows, speaks softly: "He can—"

"No, he can't," she says, out of the corner of her mouth, as she pushes him back. "That's Paul." Felipe watches them dispassionately. "He's your partner. You're together. You love him."

"How did you—" Paul's sputtering to her left, and it is _so not the time_ , but she rolls her eyes.

"Everyone knows," she says, and focus back on the immediate problem. "What are you doing, Felipe?"

"I don't know," he says, and he almost seems annoyed by the question, as if that should be obvious.

"Can you do it down here?"

"I'd rather…rather not." There's a hint to smirk to it, but his voice cracks as he says it. He turns back around, and walks a few more steps. His balance is superb, but even she can hear the ancient stone beginning to crumble, and Paul grabs her wrist. She pulls out of his grasp.

"Listen to me," she calls out. "I'm going to walk a little closer." There's no protest to this, and so she does, takes a few careful steps over the railroad tracks. She's still several steps away when he turns back around, much too quick for comfort. He looks at her, seemingly unconcerned, and shakes his head. "Okay," she says, raises her hands. "Okay, I'll stay right here."

~*~


	39. Chapter 39

He searched the old guard post; he searched the rafters; he searched the secret quarters the king had so loved to frequent. The sounds of battled raged around him and yet still he searched. 

He didn't find Javert. 

He did, however, find himself grabbed by the wrist, twisted around, forced face-first into the wall, and growled at.

"I didn't let you go so you could _lead an invasion_."

"I'm not _leading_ —you didn't let me go at all!"

Javert huffed against his neck, and released him. "I put you under Pontmercy's guard."

Jean thought about that as he turned around, and shrugged. "Well," he said. "I'm not _leading_ the invasion."

Javert looked at him, blinked, and then laughed. A desperate, hysterical laugh, as he brought a hand to his face and covered his eyes with it. He leaned back against the vast dining table behind him, and Jean got as good a look at him as he could, in the dwindling light through the windows and the flickers of torches in the hall. He seemed exhausted, hair mussed and sweat soaked, forehead flushed. His uniform was singed and ripped; blood dripped from his hairline, though he did not seem to have noticed it. He'd long since lost his sword.

A loud bang shook the dust from the rafters above them, and Javert dropped his hand from before his eyes, and went still, the very air around him went still, and the sounds of screams were abruptly silenced.

"What are you doing?" Jean said, morbidly fascinated. 

Javert looked up at him; his eyes were wide, shocked, as if he'd forgotten Jean was there. The noise in the courtyard began again, shouts and the distant roar of fire. 

Javert spoke through gritted teeth: "Protecting the kingdom."

"You mean the king."

Javert smirked. "There's a difference, then?" 

"Yes," he said.

Javert stared, swallowed visibly, strode up to him, and pushed him back against the wall. 

The kiss was brief but fevered, tasting of blood and smoke and fear. 

"You will leave. Immediately." Javert said, breathing heavily against his lips.

"I will not."

Javert's eyes shut; he ducked his head, pressed his hand to Jean's chest, then stepped back. 

"Then you will die here. And I will do nothing to stop it."

~*~


	40. Chapter 40

The fires had died down. They'd captured the few guards still alive. They'd lost a good number of their own: the bodies lay, lined up on the cobblestones of the Great Hall, as the healers shuffled from side to side, trying to find single sparks of life in any of them.

There was a vague, creeping feeling of doubt all around them; its origin was a source of significant debate, none of which she had very little time for. She walked the courtyard, her eyes on the high walls, the crenellations above. The wind howled above them, like some kind of wounded animal.

Something snapped behind her and she had her bow up and ready in an instant, only to find Jean, looking significantly worse for wear and angrier than she'd ever seen him. "You've heard about the king, then?"

He shook his head.

"He's gone. Has been for days, probably. Someone knew we were coming."

Jean's mouth twisted unpleasantly. "An ambush?"

"You'd think they'd have been better prepared if it was."

"Yes," he said, glancing into the far shadows of the courtyard, the direction he'd come from. "Yes, you would think. Where are the others?"

"The Great Hall," she said, and he nodded, sharply, and went off in that direction. She followed, almost walked into him from behind when he came to sharp stop. 

He stared at the room: the faint glow from fading flames threw long shadows on ripped tapestries, made the blood on the stones look black. It was impossible not to step in it; it was impossible not to smell it. In a distant corner, a huddle of captured guards looked warily at them, and Jean glanced at her. "How many?"

"Twenty. Foot soldiers and deputies, the lot of them. No officers."

"None?" He seemed more concerned than shocked, and she shrugged; their uniforms had not indicated otherwise, at least, though in fairness she had not been present during the questioning. "I think—"

Time slowed.

There was a shout, a _thwack_ , and a pained cry. She looked toward the prisoners: one stood, reloading crossbow in his trembling hand before he was gone, disappeared like he'd never been. The men rushing to apprehend him were as startled as she was, but she had no time to think about it, because she heard someone stumble behind her. 

She turned around: Jean's eyes were wide and his arm was bleeding, as if he'd been grazed, but he was standing, otherwise unharmed, while behind him, a man she had never seen before had fallen against the wall. 

Time began again. 

Jean rushed to the dying man. For there was no doubt about that, the bolt had pierced his chest and been jolted as he fell, widening the wound and sending blood pouring out of him, drenching his shirt. There were words, but she did not hear them, not over the sudden rush of force that cut through the Hall like a tidal wave and sent everyone to the floor.

She raised her head: the man was on his back, and Jean was leaning over him, pressing a hand to his chest, murmuring something. The cruel and cold breeze swirling above them didn't seem to affect him.

"It's all right," she could hear, barely. "It's all right, Javert, I promise. But you have to stop. You have to stop this, Javert, the—" a chunk of the ceiling fell to the floor not far from her, and she struggled to stand, to move. "Just look at me. Just look—"

~*~


	41. Chapter 41

"You told me to stop," he says, looking at Paul for the first time in what feels like hours. 

"When?" he says, taking a hesitant step closer. Felipe takes a step of his own, moving easily along the wall and toward him.

"When I was…you told me to stop. And I wanted to. I couldn't control it, but I wanted to. I tried—" 

"I know you did."

Felipe gives him the familiar, too-common _I don't like being patronized_ look. "You don't remember."

"No," he says, and places his hand on the wall. "But I believe you."

Felipe laughed at that, and took a careless step back. "You shouldn't. I'm crazy, I can't—this can't be real, but I _remember…_ "

"What?" He couldn't help taking another step closer, for all that Fantine was throwing him a cautious look. "What do you remember?"

"All I wanted to do was protect you," he says, and his shoulders sag. "I wanted you to be—somewhere safe. Somewhere—"

"Without you?" He hears, and turns to look: Fantine's eyes are strange, unfocused, and she shakes her head as if to clear it. He turns back, and Felipe is nodding. He looks exhausted, but relieved. 

"Yes," he breathes, and that's all Paul needs to hear.


	42. Chapter 42

"—look at me, just look at me." 

He did. The edges of his vision bled to black, but he did: Jean was frightened. He couldn't understand why. He blinked, and stared up: stones seemed to be raining down, on them, on _him_. He pushed them away. It shouldn't have been simpler than diverting an arrow but it was. They flew apart, hit the north and south walls with shattering force.

"Javert."

His gaze focused back on Jean; he looked even more frightened now. There were tears in his eyes, and Javert tried to smile. He'd never been terribly good at it before, but it seemed worth the considerable effort, now. 

"Listen to me."

He was; he always was. For more than thirty years he had heard Jean's voice in his head, in his dreams, in his worst moments. To hear it now, to see him speaking the words, to feel his hands stroking his face, pressed to his chest, was a mercy he did not deserve.

"You need to control it."

He couldn't. He never had. He'd never learned. He'd wanted nothing more than to be free of it, of the _feeling_ of it, the way it ached beneath his skin, fought its way out of him.

"Someone could get hurt."

Jean was bleeding; had he been bleeding before? Had he been hit after all? Had he—Javert tried to breath and found that he couldn't. His heart burned, red-hot and vicious. The ceiling above them shattered once and for all. 

He shut his eyes; the cold of the stones beneath him seemed to seep straight to his bones. He was dying. He was dying, and he was taking the world with him. He was dying, and it was _wrong_ , he didn't want to—

Jean was calling to him; he was kissing him; his heart flared, and burned, and then Jean was gone. 

He opened his eyes: he was alone. The hall was empty. The ceiling was falling. The summer stars were bright above him, familiar, but fading.

He closed his eyes. He heard no more.

~*~


	43. Chapter 43

He walks up to him; he doesn't think, he doesn't rationalize, he doesn't fear the consequences. He looks up at Felipe; Felipe looks down, and at this distance, it's obvious he's shivering.

"Listen to me. Come down here."

"I—"

"Come _down_. I won't say what I have to say to your knees."

"It's not—" 

He offers his hand; Felipe takes it, seemingly on instinct, and then it's all to easy to tangle their fingers together. He gives him a slight tug; Felipe sighs, and steps down. 

Paul embraces him immediately; he's still shuddering, but he's real, solid, safe in his arms, for all that he doesn't seem thrilled to be there. He drops his forehead to Felipe's shoulder. 

"Listen to me—" 

"I _am_ listening to—"

"There is nowhere — _no place in the world_ — where I would be better off without you. Do you—do you understand that? And even if there…" he feels tears in his eyes but doesn't care. He buries his face in Felipe's neck. "Even if there _were_. I would—there is _nowhere_ I'd rather be—than with you. Do you understand?"

Felipe doesn't answer, except to sigh. His shivering stops; his arms, which had hung, straight and awkward, at his side, slide carefully around Paul's waist. He breathes deep, and it's impossible, but Paul would swear he can hear his heart begin to beat.

**Author's Note:**

> So the story of this story is that it comes from all over the place. 
> 
> 1) The chapters are short because I was going for a whole "scenes of a TV show" thing, per the initial inspiration of OUaT. I'm...not quite sure how well that worked out, but there we are.
> 
> 2) I'm currently reading LOTR, which totally shows in parts. 
> 
> 3) I came into this with an outline and a plan for this to be a series with more installations (regarding other characters, who are hinted at/mentioned here); I end it with the hope that this will still happen eventually, but also with the knowledge that this fic nearly killed me sooo. 
> 
> 4) Title comes from Seamus Heaney's poem, "[Scaffolding](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/76003687887/masons-when-they-start-upon-a-building-are)", which I saw on the NYC subway a couple of weeks ago.


End file.
